Survivor's Guilt
by How Clever of You
Summary: "Why wasn't it me?" he shouted, because the thought was running through his head like a one-track tape.  / Spoilers for 2.14, "One Wrong Move." Massive angst, themes of suicide. Rated for safety.


The glass of scotch was cool and wet in his hand, and the gun was solid and warm in his pocket. He doesn't know how he got here. He remembers walking, in a daze, to his bedroom – seeing the half-unpacked bags from Jamaica and the piles of sand from his shoes in the garbage can. He remembers stumbling out, feeling drunk just from breathing, and hitting the wall in the hallway. Sliding down, down next to his abandoned gear, down next to that slick, silver handgun. He gripped it between his fingers and was up before he even realized he was moving.

The bar was nowhere special. Just some dump on the east side of town, filled with smashed college students and lethargic girls in too much makeup. Cheap streamers hung from the ceiling and writing covered the walls with all sorts of drunken messages, from phone numbers to poems to complete gibberish. The majority of the occupants were playing pool or lounging in the beaten-up booths, using the yellowing stuffing as a pillow. The only one also on a stool was an angry man, nursing a drink, a few seats down. The bartender had a braided beard and bore a disgusting resemblance to a Mexican Jack Sparrow. Lou would have loved it.

He knows exactly what Amanda Luria would call this. She would come up with a handful of things – depression, PTSD, antisocial personality disorder. But he knows exactly what it is, and he sure as hell knows she would, too. She wouldn't waste his time with a diagnosis that doesn't fit, and he wouldn't waste hers by pretending she's wrong.

He was halfway through his third glass when he decided it was time. The gun slipped out of his pocket, light and easy, nothing compared to what he carried at work. Nobody really paid him any mind, just continued with drunken conversations and roars of triumph (or loss) and cheesy pick-up lines that he had heard a hundred times.

He didn't know where he was going. Walking and seeing were difficult, blurred by alcohol and grief. There were footsteps behind him, way back – but there were footsteps in front of him, too. A young couple, holding hands, illuminated by the streetlamps, were just a few paces ahead. She had red hair tied back in a ribbon, and it reminded him of this girl he knew way back in elementary school – in the newspaper pictures, the difference between hair and blood were almost indiscernible.

Spike hadn't thought about her in years.

He lost himself for a while, forgot who he was and where he was going. Then he was in a neighborhood he knew well – there had been a drug bust there just a few weeks before, and several months before that. It was peaceful, now. A little girl and her mom sat on the front steps, watching the stars; a group of teenagers talked in quiet tones of who did what and who did who; a couple of pedestrians just passed by without a second glance.

How could their lives go on without a hitch while he was struggling to keep his together?

This would be the perfect place.

Much to the irritation of his successors, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. There was a garbage can on his left; on his right, a green Sedan Valiant drove past and parked a few stores up at a 24-hour Chinese restaurant. A man crossed the street.

The gun dug uncomfortably into his Adam's apple. He switched it up, and it fit almost snugly against his temple. The metal was cool and hard, almost buzzing with the electricity of righting a wrong, avenging an unfair death.

There was a lapse in time, and when he opened his eyes, the mother and daughter were gone. Greg was there, a few feet away, arms outstretched. Ed and Jules and Wordy were flanking him, geared up, guns in position. He could see the words formed on Ed's mouth before he could even say them: "I've got the solution."

"Spike, why don't we talk?"

He hated everything, right at that moment. He hated the slight curl of Jules' hair, hated the stark baldness of Ed's head, hated how Wordy shorted his last name. He hated how Boss could talk so easily, as if he was just another of the targets – just another druggie, or drunk, or stupid dumbass, washed-out, grudge-holding kid without a care. Because he wasn't, he never was. He liked his job and he liked his friends and he liked his life. But, despite all that, he couldn't do it anymore. It wasn't fair. Not for himself, not for the team, not for Lewis.

He should've been the one there, on that land mind. He should have been the one who died. Not Lewis. Not quiet, calm, caring Lewis, with his stupid jokes and sarcastic backtalk. Not the Lewis who he met in training, all those years ago; not the Lewis who became his best friend, his comrade, his brother; not the one who told him to call up that girl, because all he wanted was for him to be happy. Not the Lewis who made a sacrifice to save his team, to save Spike, because he was wrong, it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair at all. Because Spike should have been the one standing there, putting his life on the line and not Lewis, never Lewis.

"Would Lewis have wanted this? Would he have wanted you to throw away your life just because he lost his? No. We both know that. So just put it down, and we can all go home, safe and sound. Because that's what he would have wanted."

The sudden rush of tears down his cheeks startled him. He wiped them away with one hand, mindful of the way Greg shifted closer, ready to bring this all down.

"Why wasn't it me?" he shouted, because the thought was running through his head like a one-track tape. "It should have been me."

"He was under orders; he was doing his job, right 'til the end. He would have made a great soldier." Greg still had his hands up, as if he could control Spike's movements with the sheer power of his mind. "He was a very loyal team member. He saved so many lives. Isn't that how he would've wanted to die? In the place of someone else? He was protecting me, and the team, and all those innocent people – but especially you. You were his best friend."

"He should have waited." The scotch was already coming back up, heavy and warm and not pleasant at all. His stomach churned and his palms started to sweat. It was getting even harder to see, and he feared for a moment that he might miss his own brain and take someone else down. "I was going to do the weight transfer."

"If that failed, you both would have died, and then where would we have been? He was keeping you safe. What you're experiencing is survivor's guilt, and –"

"I know what it is!" The frustration was building. Greg didn't even bother to lower his voice when he said, "Subject is escalating. Do not use unnecessary lethal force – Constable Scarlatti is very emotional, but shows signs of cooperation. You want to cooperate, right, Spikey?"

The tears were hot and annoying, a continuous stream down his face. He just wanted it all to stop. He wanted to rewind a week, or two, or three. He wanted to be back in Jamaica, back to lying on the beach and playing chess and eating crabs. He wanted to skip out on that girl, wanted to spend every single waking moment by Lewis' side. Just to hear him crack a joke again – God, he would give anything to have his best friend back.

"We all miss him. But we want to help you through this. We're a family – we're always here for you, united."

The alcoholic haze had started to wane, and he realized something.

"How did you know I was here?"

"A man at the bar called in and said he saw a drunken policeman with a gun." He must have looked perplexed, because he added: "You still have your name on, buddy."

He reached back and touched his neck – sure enough, _Scarlatti_ was clearly adorned on the back of his jacket. Across the street, watching from behind one of the vans, was the man from the bar. He looked worn out in the bright light of the streetlamp overhead, the anger fading away into the ragged lines of his face, replaced with a stiff exhaustion only someone who had been through a lot could possess.

"He'd seen the behavior before, being a retired policeman himself. He figured there was trouble. Teams 3 and 4 were on call, but Winnie thought it'd be better if we took over."

"Where's Sam?"

"He's not doing too well, buddy. Real torn up about what happened today."

"Yeah?"

They weren't doing this officially. This was so not Greg – or Ed, especially Ed. This was off the books, secret. There were only four SRU officers, all of whom were standing together. Nobody was stationed at another location, keeping him under the scope, waiting for Scorpio. Nobody was sitting in the van, gathering information, calling back up, contacting relatives. This was strictly a family matter. The guns were for show, for any sign of trouble. They were there just in case something changed and Spike started shooting someone other than himself – it was there for necessity. For safety.

The gun was shaking in Jules' hands. Her eyes were large, fearful – nothing like the girl he knew, the one who could bring down the bad guys with a flick of her wrist. She looked so small – afraid of losing someone else. _Not today, please. Not today._

Wordy had his weapon pointed too high; it would hit the roof of the building behind him rather than Spike himself. He wasn't there to hurt anyone – he was there to make sure Spike came home on two legs rather than on a blood-stained stretcher.

Ed was stoic as always, his emotions hidden behind those blue eagle eyes. He kept his feelings hidden, but, just like the rest of them, he was struggling. He just had a different way of showing it. His raw knuckles told of hit walls and splintered glass. He was just as torn up as the rest of them.

Boss just looked tired. He had lost a son that day already, and he didn't have the energy to lose another.

The gun slipped from his hand so easily, fell from his fingers to the ground. Greg was there, suddenly, and so was everyone else – Jules had her head on his chest, her arms around his waist; Wordy was smiling, tears of relief misting his eyes and threatening to fall; Ed was watching, the handgun tucked safely into his belt; and Greg was clapping him on the shoulder, another life saved, another job well done.

He was surrounded by his second family, a group of people who loved him unconditionally.

This is what Lewis would have wanted.


End file.
